


Fugue: Aftermath II

by Pink_Dalek



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:04:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fred goes home after the end of "Fugue."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fugue: Aftermath II

By the time he'd finished booking in Mason Gull, Fred Thursday felt steadier. Morse had asked if there was anything that needed doing before he left for the day; Fred had told him no and sent him home. The lad was still exhausted and troubled, and had been stabbed barely two days before.

"Can I run you home, sir?" It was PC Strange. The young constable was quiet on the way home, beyond a "Glad that's over, then. Be a relief to get back to stolen cars and unruly drunks."

"Indeed."

They pulled up outside the Thursday home. "See you on Monday, sir. Enjoy your day off."

"You, too."

Win recognized from Fred's heavy tread in the entry that it had been a rough day. She stepped out of the lounge to meet him. One look at the face she knew so well, and she was helping him out of his coat and hanging it up for him. He gathered her up in his arms and held her close, as tightly as he could without hurting her, for a long time. She rubbed his broad back, murmuring soothing words, feeling the tension in his body. He breathed in the scent of her hair, mingled with her perfume.

Sam started out of the lounge, a funny comment on his lips. It died the moment he saw his dad clinging to his mum like she was his anchor in the world. He backed silently into the lounge, easing the door shut, and sat down on the sofa beside Joan.

"What's going on?"

"I don't know, but I think Pop had a rough day at work."

Joan leapt to her feet. "Is he hurt?"

Sam grabbed her arm. "Didn't look like it. Give them some time. Mum'll look after him." Joan sank down onto the sofa. "This is why he insists on leaving work at the front door."

"Which was fine when we were kids. We're adults now. We know he sees some horrible things out there."

"He still wants to protect us. Let him," Sam told her.

In the hall, Fred finally loosened his hold on Win. She stroked his hair back from his face. "There, love, you're home now." She kissed him gently and led him to the kitchen, where she poured a brandy and placed it in his hands. He took a long drink.

"We nicked the killer we've been chasing."

"Good. I knew you would, Fred." Privately, Win was relieved. She hadn't been worried for herself or the kids, but that the case had been wearing Fred down. He'd been sleeping poorly, restless and muttering in his sleep. The night before last, when they'd been looking for that little girl, he hadn't even been home at all, catching an hour's rest at his desk at some point. He'd told her a little about it over a cuppa in the dining room while Morse napped on the sofa.

"Caught him on the roof of one of the colleges. Morse helped me." Fred finished his brandy and scrubbed tiredly at his face. He wouldn't tell her everything, of course, especially that he'd been one of the murderer's targets. 

Seeing his exhaustion, Win turned practical. "Tea's nearly ready. After that you can have a long soak in the tub and an early night. How does that sound?"

"Just about perfect, pet." Fred went upstairs to take off his suit jacket and tie. Win hurried into the lounge, to be met by two pairs of concerned eyes.

"How's Pop?" Sam asked.

"Tired. They finished that awful case. Try not to pick at each other at tea."

"But he's okay," Joan clarified. "As in, he's not hurt." Win nodded.

Joan went out to the hall phone, quietly canceling a date. Sam followed, begging off from an evening with his mates. They'd finished before their father came downstairs.

A few minutes later, Joan and Sam walked into the dining room. Their dad was already there, preparing his pipe for later. "Heard you caught that rotter you've been chasing. Good show, Pop," Sam told him, trying to sound hearty and casual.

Joan bent over his chair, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tightly from behind. The day before, it had been him holding her tightly, eyes misty. She hadn't understood until she'd seen in the Saturday paper earlier that her dad, her very own seemingly ordinary dad, had rescued a kidnapped little girl. She'd realized that was why he'd been out all night for work, why his new bagman Morse had been kipping on the sofa. It was easy to forget that the man who scolded her and Sam for squabbling and skiving off chores, who mended fuses, fixed leaking pipes, tinkered in the shed when her mum was stroppy, and taught her to drive, was a sort of hero.

"Love you, Dad."

He patted her hand. "You too, Joanie." His voice was suddenly rough. Joan kissed his cheek, then let go and took her place across from Sam.

After the meal, Joan and Sam cleared the table and disappeared into the kitchen to do the washing up without their usual bickering and teasing. Fred lit his pipe and sat back in his chair. "Those two are never this quiet."

"They're worried about you. They know you've had a rough week."

He sighed. "I try my best not to bring it home."

"I know you do, love. But they're not small anymore. They read the newspaper. We all do. We know you have to put work in a box and set it on the shelf beside your hat to keep from dwelling on it, to keep it from hurting you any more than it does. But they worry about you, Fred. As do I, love." 

To his surprise, the kids didn't seem to have any plans for Saturday night. Instead, they stayed in the lounge with their parents, watching light, silly things on the telly. Win knitted. Sam took his dad's usual armchair while Fred sat on the sofa, Joan nestled against him, his arm around her. She might be wearing Chanel perfume and hold a responsible job at a bank, but he was glad to get these reminders of the little girl she'd been. 

He and Sam were close, and their relationship was beginning to show hints of the deep friendship of an adult son with his father, but Joanie had always been her father's girl. She was the oldest, the first to have been placed in his arms as a newborn. He'd been so young then, and despite being a decorated soldier, so clueless and terrified by this tiny helpless creature they'd entrusted him with. And yet, so very much in love with her from that first moment that he knew he'd walk through fire to keep her safe. He still remembered how he and Win had hovered over her cot those first days, afraid her soft little breaths would stop.

Sam had gotten the benefit of their experience; Joan had trained them well. They weren't quite so scared when they brought him home, although Fred had still felt that overwhelming love the first time his son was placed in his (thankfully less shaky) arms.

Later in the evening, after Fred had gone upstairs to take a bath, Sam pulled his sister aside. "What say we go down to the pub for a pint and some darts? Give Mum and Pop some time together without us kids underfoot."

Joan supposed it was a sign of encroaching maturity that the unspoken suggestion about their parents' relationship didn't revolt her the way it once had. "I'll get my coat and tell Mum we'll be home at midnight."

After they'd left, Win tapped on the bathroom door. "The kids have gone to the Cowley Inn for a few hours." She heard a splash and eased the door open. "You might want to shave?" She made a question of it, not sure if he was too tired.

He gave her a particular half-smile that was hers alone. It had looked quite rakish on a young army captain in uniform, and it still gave her a flutter twenty-some years later. "I'll do that, pet."

Win closed up downstairs, leaving the porch light and a lamp in the lounge burning for the kids. She returned upstairs to change for bed, brushing out her hair and dabbing on a bit of Shalimar. Fred had brought it back for her from Paris after the war, along with a promise that he would never leave her alone again. She'd kept a bottle of it on the dresser ever since. When Fred joined her, the cheek he rubbed against hers was smooth and he smelled of soap and aftershave. He sighed as he held her close, breathing her in. "Oh Win," he murmured, his deep voice gone husky with desire.

Later, when they were curled up together, Fred fought off sleep, savoring the warm weight of Win in his arms. He was lucky. He'd survived the war, married the girl he still loved with all his heart, raised two good kids with her, built a successful career and a good life. All things worth fighting for. At moments like this he cherished them, knowing how fragile it all was. His eyes were getting too heavy to keep open when he heard what he was waiting for. The front door opened quietly and he heard a whispered squabble break off with a sharp "Shh!" from Joan. The door closed and locked, and he heard them tiptoe to the kitchen. Little noises from the cooker and the fridge suggested that they were chasing ale with cocoa. He stifled a chuckle at the contrast. Perhaps not quite grown-up yet. He might get a couple more years like this before it was just him and Win in the house. 

Though that had its good points, too. He nestled closer to Win and let himself fall asleep.


End file.
